


The Drunken Catch

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 14:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12255969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: “You’re drunk,” Rose tells David, and yeah, perhaps he is, but it’s not because of alcohol.





	The Drunken Catch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



“ _Wirklich?_ ” 

“ _Ja,_ ” David answered, ignoring the giggle in his sister’s voice over his speakerphone. He bundled a t-shirt between his hands and threw it in the direction of his suitcase as if making a hook shot in basketball. Only for the t-shirt to unfurl as it sailed over the suitcase on his bed, falling over its side. 

“ _Aber- Grossbritannien,_ ” Rose started, her voice ending in a half sing-song half hum/half vocal runs she’d do all the time, which drove him crazy. 

“It’s not too far, only two hours. Not too expensive, only one hundred and twenty-five euros,” David raised his voice, but not to a shout, but loud enough for the phone on the bed so his sister could hear him clearly, as he padded around to the other side, sweeping the shirt off the floor with his hand. “It’s not as far as New York.”

“Okay,” Rose half giggled, half hummed again. 

A pause on the line. 

David knew his sister. She was thinking of whether to finish with a tease or ring off waiting on him to twist in the wind, knowing that she’d mock him the next time they spoke, and it would be worse because he would be expecting it, but tied up in knots not knowing when. 

“Well. Enjoy yourself.” 

_Ja_ , he could do this, say his goodbyes before she got a word in edgewise.

“To watch _The Catch_.”

“Rose!” David hissed testily, but before he could get another word in, she clicked off with another vocal run of _Bussi, baba!_ which really should have sounded stranger than it did. 

The clicking off dousing the room in a silence, with David holding his wash bag in his hands, his mouth drawn into a half pout.

His flat tidy and well maintained, courtesy of the cleaning service who came three times a week. 

All this save his bed, looking as if his wardrobe of casual and formalwear decided to rage a war when they got wind of David being dressed in civilian clothing for the weekday away. Dress trousers caught up in a scrum with flannel long-sleeved shirts and crisp distressed t-shirts. Over there, denim jackets _having words_ with leather jackets, warning them to back off, because they were the ones going into that carry-on, you understand, and there was nothing to be done for it. 

Socks sneaky as snakes, already drifting halfway into the suitcase, just being quiet and avoiding the drama. 

David shook his head at the mess in front of him. Housework had never been his strong suit. He sighed at himself, seeing the work ahead of him. He had to finish packing, and clear up before crashing into bed. He then thought about tomorrow, and grinned.

***

**Twickenham Stadium; London. Tuesday October 25, 2016**

Tickets in hand, David drifted to his seat. At his age, and with his teams -both domestic and national- he’d played in stadia around the world, each of them impressive cathedrals of sport in their own way, but Twickenham Stadium had something special about it. The swoop of its raised roof, shielding the supporters from the worst of the inclement weather, but on clear autumnal days like this, the sky a crisp, even, intense blue framed in the open oval shape. The place about eighty thousand heaving, but yet feeling as intimate and close to the action like a local football pitch, he appreciated the reasons why it was affectionately called “Twickers.” 

“We could have gotten hospitality,” Jerôme observed, eyes scanning the crowds behind his dark-rimmed aviator frame eyeglasses. His nod to the chill of the day an oversized hoodie over another hoodie. 

Franck laughed, but you got the feeling that Franck was just happy to be out and about, walking without the hitch of injury or people stopping him for autographs and the like. This event didn't attract that sort of crowd, even though a couple of people did double takes as they passed by. 

David shook his head, “It’s fine, we are here,” he gestured to their row, not really caring for Jerôme’s censure, no matter how mild. He observed the supporters taking their seats, programmes tucked under their arms, clad in the colours their rival team shirts, clasped hands to their lips as if in prayer, sending up entreaties to the gods above. 

Jerôme sat down, tugging his hoodie over his head, looked out on the pitch. 

Twickenham really seemed to be designed for American football, the white line markings of the game standing out crisp against the green grass. The referees already out in their distinctive white and black vertical striped shirts. Just out of view, the rugged camera equipment rigged alongside the field, and slickly suited sports journalists with their own cameras and equipment in tow, setting up. 

Jerôme and Franck talking half in German and French - for all his time in Germany, Franck never had the laser focus of Xabi Alonso who went to great pains to learn the language- he just did enough to get by. _Gebrochenes Deutsch_ Xabi would tut, wagging his finger in Franck’s direction. 

Unrepentant as a pirate, Franck would grin _that_ grin, shrug his shoulders and say, “So?”

Leaving his teammates to their conversation, which included notes about the food and the general weather, David looked out at the field ahead, anticipating. He’d seen The Catch once, in real life. Although he’d seen it many times since on Youtube, vine and the rest of social media, it paled in comparison to seeing it in person. The feat so magical, so mind-blowing it made every time seeing it as new and shocking as the first time. 

Leaning forward, his elbows pressing into his thighs, David looked forward to the next time.

***

On paper, The New York Giants versus LA Rams in London might have had the feel of an exhibition cash grab. Everyone knew the NFL’s nakedly ambitious expansion plans as they looked across The Atlantic to Europe: with the American market now saturated, the NFL courted European football giants and their players to give their recommendation to potential European fans to be interested in this new type of football. Bayern had been one of those clubs, and David had taken advantage of the NFL’s courting to test his interest and now _look_ at him.

No matter what the pundits thought about the matchup outside of the stadium; under the floodlights, the roars, grunts and exasperated sighs of the crowd now visceral and real. The athletes from New York Giants and LA Rams, both sides exhibiting the fancy footwork, the raw athleticism and skill that footballers - American or otherwise- respected, because, like Odell would say in that smoothly modulated voice of his, “Game recognise game,” before breaking out into the megawatt smile that always tripped David’s heartbeat into alarming irregularity.

Hand on his jaw, David’s eyes now tracked Odell’s form across the field. The expression of his body on the gridiron, going from burning up the track to a sudden road runner stop. A shift, as he changed and made a play expressed in fractions of thought, plays that changed the game. 

Once, David tried to explain to Rose what made Odell so... _great_. Rose had tried to understand her brother’s obsession, both with the player and the sport, chewing thoughtfully at their shared meal of _Wiener Schnitzel_ in a quiet eatery just off the Kärntnerstrasse. 

His hitch running, especially his use of the three-step hitch, for instance. _”It’s like a... feint in our football, _ja_? The ‘illusion’ Guardiola talks about?_ ,” David started, using the cutlery spread across their table to form the outline of a field, and his middle and forefingers running down the pretend 'gridiron' as if they represented Odell. _”You think he’s going to run in a fly pattern, but then he stops and spins into a pass."_

Like he was doing now, taking out Forest and Gurley, hips as flexible as a slinky as he evaded the tackles; neat, fluid side steps as he passed the ball to his teammate. 

_"He does a one-handed catch, three fingers,_ ” David bubbled back then, craning his neck in the now, _"it’s fantastic, out of this world. They call it a circus grab.”_

Rose only stared at him then through narrowed eye, the other eye hidden behind her straightened fringe. He knew she wanted to say something, _You are silly,_ was a favoured insult, but she did one better. Grabbing at her wine glass, Rose took a long sip of her drink, said with the scorn only a sibling could do: “You're drunk.”

Looking at Odell now, the game break as the referee went through his semaphore motions, large enough for the stadium to see. NY Giants now being called for an illegal motion. 

“Good, eh?” Franck asked, in one of the timeouts now employed, long enough for a commercial break to be shown overseas. David nodded, eyes still on Odell.

***

With a long sharp whistle and a flourish, the game now done, David now perched on the sidelines, bouncing on his toes as excited as a child, but he wasn’t the only one there. “Marko,” he’d greeted his Austrian teammate with a brief half hug, keeping the conversation short. _Ja, Bayern's fine. And Stoke? Oh, okay, see you_. He kept one eye on the field, watching as Odell loitered out there on the gridiron, trading high fives and a flourish of handshakes, but not the dab. His arms muscular and bare save the black and grey ink of his tattoos snaking along his skin, the sheen of sweat highlighting his limbs.

Odell too cool for dabs, less Paul Pogba and more... him? Like, how could you describe Odell?

Odell strolling now to the sidelines with that languid roll to his gait, as if he had not been buzzing around the field earlier, showing off the traits that caused many a reporter to just _gush_ superlatives, not caring how unabashedly how fan drunk they sounded. The strength, the speed, the intelligence in using all those gifts at once again on display, the pleasurable shock of getting to see it again. 

“Hey,” Odell greeted, as soon as he came to the sidelines, helmet still on, hiding everything save the bridge of his nose. “ _Bruh_ ,” Odell drawled in those unhurried tones, arm outstretched, gloved palm out for a modified high five, his American accent sounding strange in its sharpness on this side of the Atlantic. “Hey, D., glad you could make it.”

David couldn’t help the grin plastered across his face, his dark glasses perched on his face for the detached cool he wanted to project, especially around Jerôme and Franck, but Odell now _here_ and David's cool just ran off somewhere. Giddy with joy at seeing his friend, overcoming everything else, David threw his arms open, drawing Odell into a hug.

“Odell,” he half laughed, his English momentarily deserting him, because if David were honest with himself, he too, was a fanboy. “It’s great to see you.”

“You too, D.,” and David heard the grin in Odell’s voice, before they broke apart. “Hey, what are you doing later?”

“I-”

Franck and Jerôme stepped forward, exchanging brief handshakes, and greetings. Odell, minding his manners - “Excuse me,” he said, textbook style as you please, pulling away from David, as he tugged off his helmet, his signature hairstyle with the faded sides and back, topped with the longer elongated curls dyed a platinum blond, now springing and falling across his forehead, pressing against his eyelashes. The platinum hairstyle a stark contrast to his black, full beard, and bronzed skin. “That’s better,” he grinned, with the overbright smile of triumph only American athletes felt free enough to do. With him, it had the startling quality of being sincere. 

“Are you flying out tonight?” he asked David, as soon as everyone else drifted away. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his gloved hand. 

“Ahh...” David shook his head, shades still on his face, but not even the tint could dim Odell's grin. “No. Tomorrow.”

“Okay, so we can hang, then,” Odell’s arm now around David’s shoulders, perspiration warm and close, his sweat soaking into David's flannel, but David didn’t mind. “I have to do some press now." Yeah, David understood _that_ aspect of the job, but American football seemed to demand more of it, down to even the reporters going into the dressing rooms for interviews which seemed a bit too much on this side of the pond. 

“I’m at The Grove.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, somewhere near uh...” Odell’s gaze going up and right, riffling for the name in his memory banks. “Watford, I think? It’s not too far, I hope? If you want to bring your boys, it’s cool. We can play Clue, or something.”

***

David told Jerôme and Franck where he was headed for the rest of the night, because he was a responsible teammate, but that invite? To _bring your boys_?

He might have forgotten about telling them. Probably on purpose. The message bouncing out of his mind like a ball blasting out of the pitch out of the stadium into one of the side streets somewhere. Sorry, not sorry.

Normally, David would have been ashamed. Jerôme and Franck, like everyone else, enjoyed having that access to the biggest stars of the game and Odell was one of them. As he stepped into the softly lit reception, seeing Odell leaning in front of the wide expanse of the wooden desk, high-fiving his teammates as they drifted away towards the dining room, his guilt largely evaporated like water in the desert. 

“D!” Odell’s face brightened, and in no time at all, a slap of palms into a full hug, the breath a _whoosh_ out of David’s lungs for a second, before breathing in the scent of _him_. Hard to describe, like a strong clean bar soap, with freshly laundered cotton, musk and well, _him_. 

“Hey.”

“Right back at you,” Odell grinned as they broke away, before draping his arm around David’s shoulders. They were about the same height - David might have been a bit taller- which always caught David off guard, because he’d met Odell’s teammates, and they were massive. Odell just seemed _right_. The right height, the right size, big enough to do what he needed to do, but mass still lean enough to fit into clothes that David wouldn’t have minded nicking - if Odell’s style hadn’t been so distinct- raw jewelled silk Gucci bomber jackets or Rag and Bone sheepskin coats with oversized lapels. Tonight in a nod to the chill, Odell clad in a dark wine jumper that felt soft and warm, faded distressed jeans that had seen better days, and crisp white Nike kicks with silver hardware. 

“Yeah,” David drawled, as they walked out of reception, the floors shone to the point of almost slipperiness underfoot. 

“Are you hungry? We were just about to sit down and eat,” Odell titled his head in the direction of the dining room. “Jacob and a few others decided to have room service, so you know, we can squeeze you in.”

“I...”

“It won’t be _Weener Sch_ \-- awww man,” Odell whined at David’s chuckle, because he said it all wrong. “Not even five minutes in and you’re busting my chops, but in that quiet German way.”

“I’m Austrian.”

Odell laughed, shaking his head, his bleached curls bobbing and bouncing with every movement. “I stepped into that, didn’t I? My bad.”

“It’s okay.”

“Hell nah, it’s not,” Odell said, pointing in the direction of the dining room, discreet signage saying THE GLASSHOUSE above the doorway in neat lettering, the maitre’d greeting news of David joining Odell for a meal with such ease, it chased David’s faintly lingering doubts of showing up away. “Like, if people told me I was Canadian, I’d be like," - at this he held up his hand shoulder height, palm out-" ‘Nah, son’, so I get you. Especially if I went, ‘but I speak English’ like Canadians don’t?” Before David could get his head around that, a shout heard across the room. That was no mean feat, considering the din of the noise around the room, with most of the fifty-three NY Giants' squadron present and sitting at the tables, their coaches and attending staff absent, in order to give them their space. Good natured humour and coarse jokes colouring the air, over the scrape of knives and forks against porcelain plates. 

Tops of tables polished to mirror shine, even with the players marring their surfaces with drinks, and bowls filled with side dishes such as jalapeno peppers, pickles, olives and other foods he didn’t know. 

“Hey, Odell, finally!” 

Odell rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding towards the guy at the head of the table. Eli Manning, David knew his stats, quarterback of note. Eli Manning, now stripped of gear but still an imposing figure, just sitting there. Dark hair ruffled due to lack of hair gel, clad in a comfortable henley shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he cut into his steak. David frowned at the deep scarlet pool of blood against the white oval of the plate and remembered, ah, yes, Americans tended to like their meat prepared differently. 

“Had to wait on _my boy_ ,” Odell dropped his hand from David’s shoulders as he reached over the table to shake Eli’s outstretched hand. “You remember him, right? _The Going Global_ vids we did for the NFL earlier this year?”

“Alaba, right?” Eli nodded, halfway standing up for a brief handclasp before resuming his seat. 

“David.”

“Yeah, I remember. Bayern-- something, right?”

“ _Bayern Munich_ , from the Bundesliga,” Odell slipped into the chair opposite Eli, his arm on David’s forearm as he gently pressed at him to sit down beside him. 

David looked at Odell with surprise but realising that he really shouldn’t. Odell came by his _soccer_ bonafides honestly, but before he had a chance to say it, Odell caught his eye before shaking his head and laughing. “Really, David? You think I wouldn’t know?”

"Not necessarily," David teased, "a lot of Americans don't really play soccer. Just even the name _soccer_ \--"

"But it's not _football_ ," Odell grinned, "although it kinda is."

"Well, but it really is. Football got its name before your football. Just because -"

"Oooh," the light fierce in Odell's eyes now, "dem's fighting words." 

“David has the right to defend his sport, Odell,” Eli interrupted, his look shrewd, his voice low but authoritative. Addressing David, his tones softening somewhat, he said, “I hope you liked the game tonight.”

“Yes,” David nodded, appreciating how the Americans spoke English. The vowels flat and the accents mostly clear and distinct. “It was...” he reached for the English word, “great.”

***

Okay, David thought, eyes closed against the world, wooden floor warming under his overheated body, his legs and arms flung out in the shape of a starfish.

Not that he’d ever tell Rose, but she might have had a point about him being drunk. Not on alcohol though, David realised. His eyes slitting open, Odell’s face hovering over his, one dark eyebrow arched in a _really?_ gesture, his lips pressed into a line of disapproval. 

No, not on alcohol at all. 

“I can’t believe you beat me,” Odell shook his head, seated beside David in a Buddha position on the same hardwood floor, the table tennis rackets abandoned on the table, far off in the leisure room they now occupied, table tennis balls scattered everywhere. Odell's jumper off, tied around his waist, his torso covered by a distressed overly bright white t-shirt with torn sleeves, inked skin peeking and winking at David through the holes of the artfully distressed shirt. 

After dinner, Odell hadn’t been kidding about them playing a game, but instead of Clue, they initially had a light back and forth with table tennis - _just to work off the food, mind_ \- only for it to become increasingly competitive. Odell might have had the fancy footwork and good follow through after a ball, but David was no slouch himself. Considering the long season, and sometimes, table tennis being the only option to work off stresses -- well, he had become quite good at the game. Good enough to nick a win from Odell, anyway.

David raised a hand, or tried. His arm flopping weakly on the cool wooden floor. With a huff, Odell grabbed at David’s wrist and raised it high, like a boxing referee would at the end of the fight, after the judges scores came in. Odell's thumb swiping at the pulse of David’s wrist made the touch more intimate than a referee’s touch would have done. The swipe slow and intentional, from base of thumb to the end of the palm being one. 

David’s fingers falling over his thumb as if readying for a dance grip, being two, his pulse having the jitters as if syringed by a tankard of espresso being three. After a long, steadying breath, before David gave himself time to think about what _this_ meant, he pushed on. 

“Champion-- the--- what’s that word in English when it’s the first of something in a sport?”

“ _Inaugural_.”

“Yes, that. I am the Inaguarl-”

“IN-AU-GUH-RAL.”

“Yes, that,” David smiled, eyes wide and taking in Odell’s face now, the arched eyebrow, the slant of his mouth. “ _Inaugural_ , it’s like Wiener Schnitzel to you.”

“So you’re saying I’m eating a loss, and it tastes like... Wiener Schnitzel?”

David grinned, cheeks hurting at the smile which covered most of his face seeing Odell’s increasing discomfort, because Odell _hated_ to lose. 

“Yes, I think so. The next time you lose, think Wiener Schnitzel and me.”

“The next time we meet, like a raindrop, it’s going down.” 

David frowned, he’d heard that line before. Annoyed with himself that a retort didn’t come to quick enough to mind so the moment passed. Odell pushed himself to his feet in a neat, fluid unhurried move from sitting to now towering over him. 

“Next time,” David agreed. When it came to Odell, he would be ready. 

“Aiiight,” Odell’s smile broad, as he leaned over, stretching his arm out, ending in an open palm, both of them knowing that this wasn’t over, and that this table tennis game would be the first of many. David looked forward to it. 

He reached out and grabbed at Odell’s palm, and scrambled to his feet, dusting off the seat of his jeans. 

“‘S fine,” Odell said, throwing his arm around David’s shoulder, and David half wishing Odell’s arm could just... live there, as they left the leisure room, and walked towards the door, getting their second wind, before Odell started, “I have Madden ‘16...” he raised his voice hopefully. Not that David would ever say it, but he actually went out and bought Madden 2016 with his own money. If he actually had two -- one to play and one still in its cellophane wrapping untouched --- well, no one needed to know. 

“I have to fly out tomorrow. I should be getting back to my hotel now.”

“Ehhh,” Odell waved that objection away, “you can crash upstairs by mine if you want. We’ll have room service call you a cab tomorrow, _kein problem_.”

David laughed half in surprise, as he did a second take in Odell’s direction. Wasn’t this turning out to be a night a night of surprises? _German?_

Odell dipping his head half in embarrassment for a moment, peroxide curls falling over his face, before the moment stole away, and Odell became himself again. “I’ve been doing a little - you know.”

Before David could even respond to _that_ , they stood in front of the lift, the doors pinging open, with people in formal dress waiting to go up after a long night on the tiles. The woman with her red-soled high heels in hand. Her companion seated, his head in his hands, probably half drunk. To the other side, a woman glancing at her reflection in the glossy finish of the elevator walls, as she reapplied her lipstick. 

This conversation could be had later. Much, much later. After David beat him again at table tennis, five matches straight.

“That's... great,” David grinned, before they stepped into the lift, waiting for the doors to close. 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

>   * Promptee's note _I'd prefer no mundane AUs for this ship because so much of its appeal for me is in the fact that they're basically like...celebrity pen pals, and one is a footballer, and the other is....also a footballer, except not?_ I hope this works for you, r! *blows kisses* 
>   * Twickenham is a purpose built rugby stadium in England. Some interesting facts [here](https://www.thisisparagon.co.uk/twickenham-stadium-fact-file-infographic/%20)
>   * [Odell Beckham Jnr's NFL 360 going global tour, when he went to Munich and London](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FK7PLLJ9pVo)
>   * [GQ interview about Odell Beckham Jnr and how he stayed at Drake's house ](https://www.gq.com/story/odell-beckham-jr-drakes-house-next-rivalry)
>   * Apologies for the butchered German 
> 



End file.
